


The Reconnaissance

by Hyarrowen



Category: Biggles Series - W. E. Johns
Genre: Flying, Gen, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 17:07:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17026704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyarrowen/pseuds/Hyarrowen
Summary: An important photographic mission, a terrifying moment in mid-air, and Huns apppearing out of the blue - or rather, the grey.  Just another morning's work for the RFC, high above enemy-held territory.





	The Reconnaissance

The F.E.s had climbed to their ceiling well over the Allied side of the Lines, and now made their way across with a sharp wind under their tails. Far below, Biggles could see the absurdly narrow brown band of churned mud, stretching to the horizon on either hand. It was pock-marked with tiny shell-holes, dotted with observation balloons and lit up here and there with points of fire. But at eighteen thousand feet, all was quiet. Even the biting cold could not entirely dampen his spirits.

In the big forward cockpit, Mark was standing, swinging his Lewis gun this way and that, sometimes peering over the side and loosing off a volley of bullets in apparent joie de vivre. Once he dropped right down in the cockpit and sighted the gun straight over Biggles' head, at which Biggles involuntarily ducked, and pulled a face behind his goggles and the swathes of his scarf. But there was no doubt that it was necessary to practice such a line of fire. The Huns had no such light and airy machines as the Sopwith Pups, which had their true home where the air began to thin out. But on a fine morning like this, even Huns could climb out of their beds, and a few thousand feet higher. The New Zealander had saved Biggles' bacon on any number of occasions, and Biggles was not about to tell him his business now.

The clouds were amassing above the target for their photography, a point a few miles into enemy territory where several canals converged. The Belgians had staved off invasion by flooding the country a couple of years ago. Now, maybe, the Germans would repel an attack in the same way. Therefore, 169 Squadron had been sent out to reconnoitre - and maybe, the next day, they would return with bombs to smash the machinery before the advance.

Mabs led them from cloud to cloud, the vast cumulo-nimbus concealing, then revealing them to any eyes that might be watching. As they descended, the bumps became more frequent and sharper. Mark was fumbling to get the camera into position over the side; Biggles was now watching for both of them, his only blind spots being immediately above and below them, though the grey mist swirled about them, dazzling and concealing in equal measure. Mark was snatching glances now and then, and the rest of the Flight would be watching their backs as well. Biggles shifted the joystick forward and began the run, aiming to come out of the cloud base just above the canal junction and pumping station.

Lower – lower – the mist thinned out and they skimmed along just below it. Mark was already taking the first photograph. Biggles had timed their emergence to perfection. There was the pumping station, right below them. Mark changed the plates, twice more, and they had left the station behind and were over the canal junction. Four, five photographs. Four more to go.

Some extra sense made Biggles twist his head. Pale in the mist above him was a shark-like silhouette. An Albatros! He yelled a warning to Mark, pulled on the joystick and reared up into the cloud again like a startled pheasant. Where were the others?

Mabs' F.E. loomed up on his right, so close that Biggles had to bank sharply to his left to avoid a collision. A hail of tracer came from the front cockpit. The Albatros whirled out of sight; Biggles craned round for a moment to watch, then left Mabs and the others to deal with it. At that moment, they struck a bigger bump than usual. He fought to get the F.E. back onto an even keel. And a split second later he saw that Mark had lost his balance and was hanging half over the low coaming of the forward cockpit.

It might have been a groan that escaped Biggles' lips. It might have been a scream. Be that as it may, he abandoned stick and rudder-bar and half threw himself across his own cockpit coaming, his gauntleted hands clutching at Mark's collar and belt. The mist made them slippery. Mark's scarf flailed in his face, blinding him. The coaming gouged into his stomach, and the lower edge of the instrument-board into his thighs. But his hold tightened like a vice, and with main force he hauled Mark bodily back into the cockpit.

The F.E. began to wallow and lurch in the air, the precursor to a spin. He shoved Mark's scarf out of his face, and yelled, “Are you in?”

Mark, his goggles awry against a face turned white as paper, nodded mutely. His hands were locked around the gun-mounting. Biggles lurched back into his seat, and snatched up the controls again.

A shadow fell across them. A streamlined fuselage with green and purple wings zooming loud and fast overhead. Another Albatros, in a perfect position for a killing shot. They were sitting ducks. Biggles' mouth opened in horror, to shout he knew not what.

But the pilot must have seen their desperate struggles, for he simply raised a hand in salute as he passed, and turned back to deal with Mabs' machine, coming up behind.

Mark and Biggles snatched fleeting glances at each other, their faces equally shocked, Biggles was sure. But he had the F.E. back under control, and they shot up into the grey cloud and turned for home. They had to get back with the photographs. Five were better than none at all. And there had so nearly been no photographs, no airmen, and instead a smoking wreck on the banks of the canal.

“Not a bad Hun, as Huns go, that one,” he told himself, “and not a bad morning's work.” And as if in response, Mark turned round to look at him, minus goggles, minus scarf, and grinned; and Biggles grinned back at him.


End file.
